


The Sound of the Sea

by NinjaFairy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Davy Jones x Calypso dynamic feels going on here, F/M, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, Jealousy, Murder, Obsession, Pillaging, Pirates, Possessive Behavior, Smut, Violence, Who are we to judge, because pirates were into the spice trade back then, only no tigers or curry, pirates of the caribbean meets life of pi, swashbuckling, tomione - Freeform, well there might be curry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15291402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaFairy/pseuds/NinjaFairy
Summary: She craved adventure, like the ones she read about in her books. She craved an escape - she craved freedom, and marrying the pretentious Draco Malfoy was anything but those things.The night before Hermione's wedding, she desperately wished for a way out of her arranged marriage. She knew no one would come to her rescue, so she was going to save herself.Little did she know, was that the dreaded Captain Voldemort had been planning her abduction for months.[Tomione. 1700s Caribbean Pirates AU.]





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [AgeOfPotter](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/AgeOfPotter) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> She craved adventure, like the ones she read about in her books. She craved an escape - she craved freedom, and marrying the pretentious Draco Malfoy was anything but those things. 
> 
> The night before Hermione's wedding, she desperately wished for a way out of her arranged marriage. She knew no one would come to her rescue, so she was going to save herself.
> 
> Little did she know, was that the dreaded Captain Voldemort had been planning her abduction for months.
> 
> Tomione. 1700s Caribbean Pirates AU.

 

I.

* * *

 

As a young girl, Hermione Granger spent her free time going on adventures. She went on adventures in the books her father brought back while on his business trips and she went on adventures using her imagination. Life for her was just as sweet as the sugar her father grew on his plantation in Kingston, Jamaica.

Her father was a busy man – always overseeing operations on the sugarcane plantation, or being gone for weeks or even months at a time at sea on business. The few trips he allowed her to go with him on his ship during his travels were her favorite adventures, by far.

Her father, Henry Granger, was a rugged Welshman who moved to the West Indies when he was a young man. He never spoke much about his life when he was younger, but the few stories she could always count on him telling were the ones about her mother.

_“The first time I saw your mum, she was hauling her net up on the pier in a little fishing village on the isle of Tortuga. As she was bringing up her catch, a man showed up, accusing her of stealing his fish. Now, your Papa, being the gentleman he was, o’ course, was getting ready to walk right up to that cad and give him a piece o’ my mind for treatin’ a lady like that,” he told her._

_Hermione shifted in his lap and grinned at him. “But there was no point in it, was there, Papa?”_

_Henry ruffled her wild, dark curls and chuckled, “Aye! Weren’t no point in it at all! I didn’t take but two steps before your mum pulled back her fist and sent that man flying into the salty drink, along with a few choice words of her own!”_

_She settled her cheek against the smooth leather of his coat and played with his compass – the compass that held the only painting of her mother and father together. Hermione ran her pudgy finger over the picture of her mother – she was dark and wild and beautiful. “And that’s when you knew you fell in love with her, wasn’t it?”_

_“Aye, love,” he replied, and kissed the top of her head. “That’s when I knew she was the only woman for me, because I wasn’t aware of anything else going on around me. It was only her and I and the sound of the sea.”_

_Hermione was quiet for a long moment. “I wish I could remember her.”_

_It was her father’s turn to go quiet. “Me, too, Hermione. Me, too.”_

A fourteen-year-old Hermione banished the memory from her mind as her hands gripped the ship’s wheel, and her eyes were set on the horizon. She looked at her father, her eyes filled with excitement and wonder as she asked, “Where are we going this time, Papa?”

Henry held up a single finger as he turned his brass chart divider along the map. She knew he was measuring something important, so she turned her attention to the rest of the hustle and bustle of the ship as she waited for him to finish. Her father’s crew was still busy at work, as they’d only set sail not thirty minutes ago. There were men straightening out ropes, hauling sugar loaf shipments into the storage bulkhead, and herding the livestock below. She _loved_ it when her father took her on his business trips. This one would only be around two weeks, but it was better than nothing at all.

As quickly as her heart swelled with joy, it had deflated. Her eyes settled on the blonde bane of her existence: Draco _sodding_ Malfoy. He was currently standing next to his father, sneering at the cabin boy, who was busy mopping the deck. Their very pampered presence on the ship stuck out like a sore thumb. They were dressed in the current ridiculous London fashion trends, including flamboyant justaucorps, stiff breeches, and powdered perukes.

Hermione barely held in a snort when she spotted Draco trying to covertly pry his breeches out of his behind.

“We’re going to Tortuga, love,” Henry finally replied.

She brought her attention back to her father. “Tortuga? Have I been there before?”

“No. It’s not exactly the safest place for a young girl these days – _filled_ with dangers, if ye catch my drift,” he chuckled darkly.

Hermione eyes widened. “Danger? You don’t mean…?”

“He means pirates, young Lady Granger,” came the slow, smooth voice of Lucius Malfoy behind them.

“Ahh, Lucius! Young Master Malfoy! It’s good that you could take time out of your busy schedule to make this journey with us,” her father greeted enthusiastically, which made Hermione roll her eyes. Draco noticed her disdain, but said nothing – he just looked at her with skeptical curiosity. Hermione raised her eyebrow at him, then turned her attention back to her father.

“It was no trouble at all, really. Draco here has been practically _begging_ me to take him to Tortuga –” Draco made a noise of protest to disagree with him, but Lucius gave him a swift hit with his cane to the abdomen to shut him up. “– to find him his first sword, and we all know the best blacksmiths reside in Tortuga.”

“Aye, Tortuga isn’t a bad place, but I prefer Port Royal, myself,” Henry added. He took a short swig of his rum and had a small coughing fit. “I must be gettin’ too old if I can’t even handle a little bit o’ rum. Say, Hermione, why don’t you show Draco here around the ship while Lucius and I go over business?”

The two fourteen-year-olds looked scandalized.

“But Papa!”

She was furious! Why did Draco _always_ ruin everything? This trip was supposed to be just her and her Papa – why, oh _why_ did he have to invite them along? There had to be other business partners out there who didn’t have a pretentious brat for a child.

Henry pulled Hermione off to the side for some privacy. He lowered his voice, “Now, now, love. This is boring stuff – nothing ye’d be interested in. I know he’s a right pain sometimes, but he’s a good lad.”

She crossed her arms and sulked, not convinced in the slightest.

Her father sighed and smiled. “Ye’ve got so much of your mother in ya, ya know that?”

Hermione’s face softened and she smiled a little bit. “You might have said that once or twice.”

Henry looked at her for a moment, then quickly reached into his linen shirt and pulled out the beloved compass he always wore around his neck. He slid the chain over her head. Hermione held her mother’s compass and then stared at him in surprise. “Papa?”

He smiled, and pointed behind her with his chin. “Ya said you wanted to go climb the shrouds on this trip, didn’t you?”

She grinned at him and nodded.

“The best time to climb is right as the sun is setting – it’s like the sky is on fire. You have about a half an hour before that happens. Do me this favor: show him around, nip a piece of the sugar loaf from my quarters, and you climb that shroud to see the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever laid your eyes upon.”

“Alright, Papa!”

“That’s my girl,” he said proudly.

Hermione hated to admit it, but showing Draco around the ship hadn’t been _that_ terrible. It was probably because he’d stayed unnaturally quiet the entire time – no snide remarks, no complaining, nothing. It was quite nice. The two of them had been forced into playing with each other for as long as she could remember, due to their father’s friendship, but they quickly discovered that they would never be compatible friends. Their playdates would usually end in her calling him a spoiled brat and him calling her a wild savage. They hadn’t seen each other in over a year, so maybe he grew up a little bit? Hermione doubted it, but there was always that possibility…

She used her father’s sugar nipper to cut off two pieces of his personal sugar loaf off. She handed one piece to Draco and shoved the other into her pocket for later. He looked at the packed sugar in his hand in bewilderment, then looked at her.

“What am I supposed to do with _this_?” he asked, his nose upturned.

Hermione nipped off another piece for herself and took a small bite. “You eat it, of course.”

“By _itself_? It’s supposed to go in cake or tea. You’re not supposed to eat it by _itself_.”

Hermione shrugged, and led the way back out of her father’s quarters and onto the deck. Draco followed her.

“Well, if you aren’t going to eat it, then give it here,” she replied bossily.

Draco scowled at her, holding the hardened block of sugar a little closer to himself. “No! I’ll…I’ll try it.”

Hermione watched on, baffled, as Draco tentatively stuck his tongue out to just barely touch the sugar. It was…the oddest thing she’d ever witnessed, and she’s seen many odd things living in the Caribbean.

She snorted. “Is that how they eat food in your fancy London town?”

His face turned red and he glared at her clothes. “At least I have some class,” he sneered. “If you showed up in London dressed like _that_ , everyone would think you’re some orphan street urchin like your father’s cabin boy, not an heiress.”

Hermione scowled at Draco, looked down at her own clothes, then looked at the cabin boy, who was still busy mopping the deck. Her father took good care of the child workers in his care, so the boy was wearing nicer linens than most other cabin boys would wear. He was a bit dirty, but so was everyone else – even her. She looked back at Draco. “Papa says that the hardest workers get the dirtiest, and look at you – not a speck of filth, so what does that say about you?”

His face turned redder and his voice got louder, “It says that I’m _smarter_ than you are, because I’d hire someone else to do the work for me!”

Hermione took another bite of her sugar and rolled her eyes for what felt like the tenth time. She goaded him, “If you have everyone else do your work for you, you’ll never learn anything, you know.”

It looked like Draco’s wig was going to blow off his head, he was so angry. Hermione smiled at his reaction. “You know, the only reason why you get away with such unladylike behavior is because your mother is _dead_ ,” he replied viciously.

Draco looked triumphant when the smile fell off Hermione’s face, but it was short-lived. Hermione pulled her fist back and swung it as hard as she could against Draco’s left eye, sending him flying into barrels of wine.

She picked up the wig that fell off his head, dusted it, and crouched down to his level. He stared at her with wide, horrified eyes, trying to scramble away from her.

“If that’s the case, I wonder what your excuse is for acting so ungentlemanly toward a lady, since your father is still alive. Hmm…” she looked down at his wig in thought, then looked back at him. She smiled, and slapped the wig against his chest. “Odd. Isn’t it?”

He gaped at her.

Hermione stood and gave his leg a good kick. He yelped.

“Piss off, Malfoy, and don’t bother me the rest of this trip,” she spat, then whirled around to see the cabin boy’s dark gaze leveled on her, his mop dripping uselessly all over his boots. Something about his eyes reminded her of the ocean at nightfall – a deep, dark abyss waiting patiently to swallow her whole.

Their gaze was interrupted when one of the crewmembers started yelling at the cabin boy for making him slip and fall in dirty mop water. The cabin boy quickly apologized, and started cleaning up his mess.

Using the distraction to her advantage, she tucked her sugar into her pocket, and ran to the shrouds. The color of the sky was just beginning to change to oranges and reds – she needed to hurry. Hermione took a deep breath to swallow her fear of heights, and started climbing the ropes.

This is what she’d been waiting for. This is what she’d been dreaming of. This is what she’d craving since she was a young child.

_Exploration._

_Freedom._

_Adventure_.

The wind made her hair whip wildly around her face, but it didn’t stop her. She climbed and climbed and _climbed_ and she didn’t stop until she reached the crow’s nest.

Hermione smiled, pulled out her sugar, and popped the rest of it into her mouth. The setting sun turned the sky to fire, and not even all the water in the sea could put it out.

She’d done it.

“Hermione, girl!” she heard her father yell from below.

She leaned over the side of the crow’s nest with a big grin plastered on her face. “Yes, Papa?”

“What’s our heading, love?”

Hermione sat back up and fumbled with her mother’s compass around her neck. She waited for the needle to settle before yelling back, “Northeast!”

She leaned back over to look down at her father, but he was busy charting their journey again. Her eyes wandered to see what looked like Lucius berating his son over something, which was nothing unusual. She scanned the crewmembers keeping themselves busy with work, but noticed that they were slowing down as the day was coming to an end. Hermione laid down on her stomach and rested her chin in her hands, her eyes now set back to the horizon.

For some reason, she couldn’t focus on the sunset she’d been so intent on seeing and she couldn’t figure out why; her eyes would always drop down below her, seeing what everyone else was doing.

After she forced her eyes back up a fourth time, she remembered the extra bit of sugar she’d taken earlier, and pulled it out of her pocket. She went to take a bite, when she froze and looked down again. But this time, she finally figured out why she kept looking down: the cabin boy was sitting cross-legged on one of the barrels below, just _staring_ at her while he ate his hardtack biscuit.

Her nose crinkled up, remembering how disgusting hardtack was, and also somewhat disturbed at the strange boy’s rude ogling.

Maybe he was wishing he could have some sugar, instead of hardtack? Henry Granger was a fair man, but he was also very strict; anyone in his crew caught stealing from him would face a harsh punishment.

Hermione looked at the block of sugar in her hand, then looked back down at the boy. He was purposefully chewing his biscuit and staring up at her when she made a quick decision – she tossed the sugar down to the boy and he caught it with feline-like grace.

She rested her chin back in her hands, and looked at the sunset again. It took everything in her to not look back down at the raven-haired cabin boy, because she knew he was still watching her – she felt those ocean eyes on her every single day after that, for the entire trip to and from Tortuga.


	2. II.

II.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in her seventeen years on this Earth, Hermione was angry with her father. She felt numb. How could he do this to her?

The sea misted her face as she stood next to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Hermione watched, detached, as muskets were raised in salute and fired into the air. She jumped, then closed her eyes. The shots fired were meant to honor her father – to honor his life, and to honor his death.

“Blessed be the dead,” Lucius had said solemnly during her Papa’s funeral. It had filled her with fury.

She should have noticed how ill he was getting, but he kept it hidden from her until it was too late. She should have noticed the signs and she was angry with herself, with him. How could he have left her? How could he have left her in the hands of the Malfoys?

And even worse, how could he have agreed to an _arranged marriage_ to _Draco_ _Malfoy_ , of all people!?

The only fight they’d ever gotten into took place while he was on his deathbed. They yelled – oh, they _screamed_ at each other. Her father told her she was to live with the Malfoys until she turned eighteen, but he’d never told her about the arranged marriage! Draco was a pretentious, pompous brat and they’d _never_ gotten along their entire lives, yet her father’s signature was on all the documents. He’d told her that he would be dead soon, and who would take care of his little girl then? Who would keep her fed? Who would keep her safe from misinformed slave traders?

And she’d stubbornly told her father that _she_ would take care of herself, keep herself fed, keep herself safe. He taught her how to defend herself. She was no child!

But then, he’d told her how legalities and the fact that she was a young woman under the age of eighteen would prevent her from doing any of those things. She’d be completely exposed.

Hermione had ground her teeth together in a quiet rage, because she knew he was right. She was one of the richest women in the West Indies and would not be allowed to touch any of her wealth until she was of age, which was almost an entire year away. Life was unfair to women and she hated it.

So, begrudgingly following her father’s wishes after his death, she became a ward of the Malfoy’s while Draco was finishing up his education in London. Thanks to Narcissa, they became the talk of the town – word of their engagement spread like a disease. Or perhaps it spread like the Black Plague? That one seemed more appropriate.

Life at Malfoy Manor the following weeks after her father’s death was… _unbearable_ , to say the least. She was never allowed to leave without getting dressed in all the layers of clothing that wasn’t meant for life in the Caribbean, without getting her hair done in elaborate curls, without heavy amounts of powder being applied to her face and neck, or without an escort.

And the worst part of it all?

Corsets.

Dear stars in the Heavens, what were they _thinking_ by inventing corsets? Hermione thought that if a lady wanted her breath being stolen from her, being gutted and drowning in the sea was a more humane alternative than wearing a bloody _corset_.

All she wanted to do was put on her linen blouse, trousers, and boots and run through her father’s sugarcane fields again. She wanted to leave. She wanted to go _home_.

But she wasn’t _allowed_ to go home. She wasn’t _allowed_ to oversee her plantation until she was of age. For now, all that power laid with Lucius Malfoy, which wasn’t much. He wasn’t allowed to buy or sell land or supplies. He wasn’t allowed to spend her money. He was essentially only allowed to oversee day-to-day operations.

Hermione didn’t particularly dislike Lucius, per se, she just didn’t _trust_ him, now that she was older and understood how the world worked better. He’d never given her or her father a reason to distrust him – it was just intuition, on her part. He seemed like the kind of man who built his wealth by riding on the backs of the wealthier. He seemed like the kind of person who never got his hands dirty, but always played that way.

That’s why she wasn’t surprised when two months into her stay, she found out from her new personal handmaiden and fast friend, Ginny Weasley, that it had been Lucius’ idea for the arranged marriage. That’s when Hermione knew that Lucius was only planning to marry Hermione to his son to gain some sort of control over the legacy her father built up from the dirt.

Hermione was no fool; she knew from the very beginning that it was very odd – a scandal, even – for a Malfoy to wed a Haitian, even if she was only half. She supposed the other half of her, the Welsh half, and her fortune, were enough to persuade them otherwise.

She needed to find a way out of this mess, and she needed to find a way out before Draco arrived back from London in two months’ time. 

 

* * *

 

The worst part of Draco’s arrival back home wasn’t the fact that he was, well, _here_ , or the fact that they wouldn’t see each other until dinner was being served, or the fact that this would be her first time seeing him since she punched him in the face when they were fourteen.

No.

The worst bloody part of Draco being back was that she’d come up with _no_ plan whatsoever. Between the etiquette classes Narcissa forced her to take and the dance lessons and the pianoforte lessons – which, by the way, she was _horrid_ at – she’d had little to no free time to think, let alone _plan_ what she was going to do to get out of this marriage. She’d been so busy being prepared to be an adequate wife for that _ponce,_ and now that he was back, she’d be kept even _more_ busy with wedding preparations and – oh, _God_.

She was doomed.

There had to be a way out of this situation. There just _had_ to be.

The only real idea she had was to be as difficult as possible to make Draco hate her enough where he refused to marry her. And if that didn’t work, then she would just run and find a way to survive on her own for six months. It wasn’t exactly the best plan, but it wasn’t the worst, either. Draco was arriving in a few hours, so the best place to start was with her appearance.

“I’m not wearing that wig tonight, so don’t even bother.”

Ginny’s shoulders slumped. “Hermione, you’ve got to! Master Draco is arriving tonight!”

“ _I_ get to decide what and what not to wear. And I have decided that I am _not_ wearing the _bloody wig_ , Ginny,” Hermione stated with an air of finality, arranging her natural curls in a half-hearted attempt to look presentable. She looked at Ginny’s reflection in the mirror. “Now, how about you grab those pins and help me figure out what to do with my _real_ hair?”

Ginny looked unsure at first, but after a few minutes, she felt better about not using a wig. “You know, I never understood the interest in wigs. They look a bit silly, don’t you think? If someone wanted to put something on their head, a lovely hat would be much more sensible, don’t you think? Especially around here! The sun is simply unforgiving to a lady’s complexion – er, well, not _your_ complexion, of course. I mean…uh…oh, my goodness, my Lady! Please forgive me! I never know when to keep my mouth shut, especially when I’m nervous.”

Hermione let out an unladylike snort. “I’m insulted that you think I’m offended, Ginny. I consider you my friend – you should feel comfortable speaking to me about anything.”

The redhead smiled and visibly relaxed. “You’re right. I’m being preposterous.”

“Yes, you _are_ being preposterous,” Hermione laughed. “Now, let’s find the most beautiful, frilly, utterly _ridiculous_ gown I have in my wardrobe, throw it out the window, then find the opposite of that.”

The girls laughed, then got to work. 

 

* * *

 

If it weren’t for the fact that Hermione hadn’t cared in the slightest of what the Malfoys thought of her, she might have been nervous. Dinner at Malfoy Manor was always a frivolous affair. More food was prepared than was consumed; it was a waste.

Hermione stood at the top of the stairs with her head held high. No one was there to escort her. No one was there to announce her, but there was no need – she could do this all on her own. 

She was wearing the simplest gown she could find – a dark blue dress with zero frills, zero lace, zero ribbons, and a modest cut. It was ordinary, unremarkable, and perfect. After her and Ginny spent almost half an hour trying to pin up her hair, they deemed it a hopeless effort and let her hair hang naturally. The only cosmetic Hermione allowed Ginny to apply was some charcoal around her eyes. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Hermione, dear,” Narcissa greeted her from her seat as she walked into the dining hall. She gave Hermione one of the worst grimace-smiles she’d ever seen and asked quietly through the smile, “Why aren’t you wearing what I laid out for you, dear?”

Hermione’s eyes darted to Draco’s and she was _not_ prepared for what she saw. He wore no flamboyant suit, no powdered peruke, no white powder on his face.

Draco Malfoy looked… _normal_ , which made him look almost… _handsome_? No, this wasn’t right – this wasn’t right, at all.

“Hermione,” he said, and stared at her in astonishment. Then he shot up from his seat, his chair screeching across the floor. He circled around the table to stand in front of her and he seemed…tense?

Oh, stars in the heavens. This was _not_ ideal.

Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him when he pulled her chair out for her. She slowly lowered herself into it, waiting for him to pull it out from underneath her.

He never did.

Once she recovered, she set out to be as unladylike and rude as she dared without making it obvious as to what she was doing, but nothing seemed to work. It was like Draco Malfoy was an entirely different person from the one she’d known three years ago. He hung on her every word and had hardly touched his meal at all.

If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought that he was legitimately _infatuated_ with her, but that couldn’t possibly be right. She did everything she could to make herself less desirable to him, but _nothing_ was working. There had to be something else at play here.

Hermione decided that she would just have to try harder.

 

* * *

 

Hermione _had_ tried harder. For _three bloody weeks_ , she’d tried harder to get him to despise her, but it was like he has _rum_ goggles or something. Nothing she wore, nothing she did, nothing she _said_ deterred him.

To put it nicely, he was up her arse.

What in the world was she doing wrong? Had he really changed while he was away? Had he really grown up? Matured? Grown less selfish?

She sighed and looked at all the jewelry, perfumes, and gifts he’d had sent to her room since he’d been back. All things she would never use.

Probably the worst part of it all was the attention and God, _even worse_ , the affection he’d try to give her whenever they happened to be alone. She always found some way to distract him or come up with some sort of excuse to avoid him.

Hermione almost felt guilty, because he was being so… _not_ Draco for once, but this was never what either of them wanted. Draco would have _never_ chosen to marry her of his own free will, if it hadn’t been for the fact that their fathers arranged it. She was trapped and she wanted out.

So, to escape Draco’s attention, her guilt, and wedding preparations, she’d hide out in a corner of the expansive library that no one ever visited. She spent her days (and even some of her nights) reading books about treasure, magic, romance, sword fighting, monsters, and adventures beyond her wildest dreams – the kind of adventures she _should_ be going on, but instead, she was stuck inside this gilded cage – like a pretty parakeet, to be looked at and admired.

This wasn’t a life, especially for her. Tears sprung to her eyes as she thought about her father. She missed him terribly.

A noise came from the front of the library and Hermione quickly wiped her tears away. Someone was walking toward her spot. She was hoping it would be Ginny, but she had a feeling her luck was working against her this time.

A blonde head poked around the corner and spotted her. “Here you are!” Draco exclaimed.

Hermione placed a dried flower in the pages of her book and smiled tightly. “Here I am.”

Draco plopped down in the chair across from hers. “Is this where you’ve been hiding?”

“Hiding? I haven’t been hiding – just reading,” she replied.

“Oh? What have you been reading?” he asked good-naturedly, then plucked the book from her lap before she could react. He frowned, then looked at her, baffled. “Robinson Crusoe? Castaways? _Pirates_?”

Hermione’s heart raced at his reaction. He seemed – she smiled – _upset_. She plucked the book back out of his grasp and said, “Yes. Castaways. Swashbuckling. Pillaging _. Pirates_.”

Draco stood and started pacing. His frown deepened. “Ladies ought _not_ be reading this sort of thing!”

“And why not, may I ask? It’s just a book.”

“Because! They start getting ridiculous and fanciful ideas of what it’s like to go on some sort of – of…romanticized adventure! It’s dangerous,” he replied, flustered.

It was Hermione’s turn to shoot out of her seat. “Oh, I see now. It must be terrifying for you to have your future wife wishing she were elsewhere! Are you really so insecure?”

Draco froze. “I am _no_ such thing.”

“It doesn’t seem that way from where I’m standing. I think you’re just afraid that I would rather go off on some whirlwind adventure than to be stuck here with _you_ ,” she provoked spitefully.

“And what if I am?” he asked quietly, no longer looking at her.

Hermione’s eyes widened and it felt like her heart fell to her belly. Did she hear him correctly?

“What did you just say?” she asked.

Draco looked back at her, furious. “I said, ‘What if I am?’! What if I _am_ afraid that you’d never find me interesting enough to stay? What if I _am_ afraid that you’d leave? What if I _am_ afraid that _I_ am not _enough_ for you?”

“I…I don’t understand.”

He came closer to her – _too_ close. “Have I not made it obvious enough, Hermione? I have done… _every_ thing I could possibly think of to make you want to stay. I have showered you with gifts, with attention. I have changed my appearance to your liking. And, while I am by no means perfect right now, I have worked diligently on my shortcomings – all for you.”

Hermione couldn’t think straight – couldn’t _breathe_. _Damn corset_. “But _why_ would you do something like that for me? We can barely even tolerate each other, Draco.”

Draco let out an unexpected laugh that made Hermione flinch. He reached out to touch her hair. “Let’s just say that you finally knocked some sense into me. I’ve always admired you, Hermione; I just didn’t know how to show it properly when we were younger.”

It felt like her chest was set on fire, she was so angry. She pushed him away. “Most people, _Draco_ , when they admire someone, are at the very least _civil_ to them! They don’t tease them! They don’t belittle them for being different! They don’t say cruel things about their _dead parents_! You never admired me! This is just a fleeting infatuation that will be gone as quickly as it came!”

“You’re wrong! If this is just a ‘fleeting infatuation’, as you say, then why has it lasted for the past four years!?” he yelled back, but quickly calmed himself and took a step closer. “Hermione, _please_ believe me when I say that I am grievously sorry for everything that I have done to you – _said_ to you – throughout our childhood together. If I could go back in time and change everything, I would.”

Draco lifted her chin and he searched her eyes. She didn’t realize she’d been crying until he wiped a tear away. He lowered his face closer to hers, his lips barely grazing hers as he spoke in desperation, “We could be happy here together, Hermione. I could give you everything your heart desired – you would want for nothing. All you would need to do is _stay_.”

Hermione’s gaze lingered from his lips to his eyes. She saw the sincerity in them, the desperation, but he was right – it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough. She turned her head to the side and softly replied, “You cannot guarantee my happiness, Draco. If anything, you forcing me to stay has only guaranteed my misery.”

The silence between them was heavier than the humidity after a tropical storm. She heard him swallow thickly. “Then you’ve given me no choice.”

Her head snapped back up to see his expression had turned hard. “What do you mean?”

Draco said nothing and grabbed her by the sleeve of her gown, and began dragging her through the library. Hermione tried pulling her arm out of his grip, but it was no use. “Draco! Let me go! What are you doing? I said, ‘Let me go!’”

He yanked her through the halls, ignoring the shocked faces of the servants they passed along the way. Hermione’s heart was hammering away at her chest, genuinely frightened of what he might do. He was calm on the surface, but she could sense the pure rage bubbling beneath. It was coming off him in waves.

They reached Draco’s personal quarters and Draco threw the door open, yanked her forward, and slammed the door behind them. Hermione collided against a nightstand and she did the first thing that came to her naturally in this kind of situation – she looked for a weapon.

Unfortunately, the only weapons she had within reach were some glass cologne bottles she could probably throw at him and a brass candelabra. All in all, not much to work with, but she’d always been a resourceful girl.

Hermione heard the lock click and she opted for the candelabra. She whirled around to face Draco and pressed her back against the nightstand, allowing her hand to inch toward the cool brass. She watched him turn around slowly, waiting for him to move or to speak.

“You…will stay here until we are wed. You will sleep here. You will eat here. You will stay by my side at all times,” he commanded quietly.

She shook her head, her voice wavering with emotion. “You cannot make me.”

“I can and I will!” he bellowed. “You may not love me now, but you will learn to, with time.”

“You cannot _teach_ me to love you! Why can you not _see_ that!?” she cried out.

Draco glared at a spot on the floor and Hermione could see the way he was battling himself over this. His body visibly relaxed. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Hermione sighed and pushed herself away from his nightstand. She walked up to Draco and placed a hand on his arm. “I’m glad you understand –”

“The wedding will be held in two days’ time now, instead of two weeks,” he interrupted, and Hermione felt her blood run cold.

“No…” she shook her head and slowly backed away from him. “Why are you doing this, Draco?”

Draco’s gaze slid to her and his eyes looked as cold as ice. “Because I love you.” 

“This is not _love_! You do not hold the person you love against their will!” she cried out again, backing away as he approached her. “This is not love. This is sick. _You’re_ sick.” 

Hermione backed into a chair and nearly fell over, but Draco shot forward to catch her by her upper arms. He didn’t let go. “If I am sick, it is only because you made me this way. What did you do to me, Hermione?” 

“What are you talking about?” she asked, trying to pry her arms out of his grasp. “I didn’t _do_ anything to you!”

“It was voodoo, wasn’t it? You’ve always been a wild, savage girl, hanging around your father’s slaves on his plantation. Did you pick up a thing or two from those vile, ungodly creatures?”

Hermione glared. “My father never owned _any_ slaves; he thought it was _disgusting_. He paid them fair wages for their work. And I don’t know any voodoo, and even if I did, I wouldn’t waste a single spell on _you_.” 

Draco’s nostrils flared as he glared back at her, then he dragged her roughly against his chest, and his lips descended on hers in a resentful kiss. 

Hermione fought against him, but it only caused him to be more insistent. She brought her shoe down on the toe of his boot as hard as she could. Draco broke away from her and howled in pain. He grabbed a hold of her waist, threw her on his bed, and hovered over her.

“Get off me, Draco!” she yelled, kicking her legs and hitting his chest and face.

Draco pinned her arms above her head. “Calm yourself, love. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

Hermione grit her teeth. “The only one who’s going to get hurt here is _you_ if you don’t let me up. And don’t call me ‘love’!”

He went to lean forward to kiss her again. She panicked and committed what was probably the most unladylike crime she’d ever done – she collected all the saliva pooled in her mouth and spit directly in Draco’s face. 

They stared at each other in shock for what felt like minutes, but Hermione knew it had only been a split second, because she had zero time to react to the slap that sounded painfully across her cheek.

Hermione’s head turned to the side from the force of the slap and she stared in numb shock at Draco’s long, pale fingers gently caressing the pulse on her tanned wrist.

“Oh, my God. Hermione, I’m so sorry,” his voice broke and he pressed his warm face into her neck and hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He pressed kisses to her neck, her ear, her hair. His remorseful tears ran hot across her shoulder, scalding her. His whispers were filled with _I’m sorry_ and _please, forgive me_ and _I love you so much_ and _please, never leave me_.

This wasn’t love.

This was obsession.


	3. III.

III.

* * *

Draco had stayed true to his word.

Their wedding was tomorrow morning. Hermione slept in his room, she ate in his room, and she stayed by his side at all times – he made sure of it.

He didn't touch her again, not even affectionately like he had been for the last few weeks. She figured it was because he felt too scared, or perhaps too guilty, to touch her so soon after what he did the night before. She noticed the way his eyes would always slide to her, waiting to see if she'd make a move to bolt.

If Hermione hadn't felt such an unsettling calm, she would have been bothered by his behavior. If anything, she felt victorious that she was eliciting these emotions out of him, but she refused to show it.

So, she continued being disinterested in everything with the wedding planning, continued showing visual displays of depression, and continued to stay silent.

As it got closer to the end of the day, her lack of resisting their wedding gave Draco the false sense of security Hermione was relying on. He felt comfortable enough to allow her to sleep in his room –  _alone_. She wasn't sure if he would follow the custom of not seeing the bride before the wedding, as he'd forced her to be alone with him in his private quarters the night before.

Hermione had immediately tested the handle, but he'd locked it from the outside. She swore under her breath and looked around the room for ideas. Her only options were the door and the balcony. There was always escaping down the balcony, but she knew it was too high.

She opened the large double doors that led to the balcony and peered over the side. The garden and courtyard were below her. The Malfoy's had increased security because of the wedding, so there were two guards playing dice and cards at a small table in the doorway of the back exit of the manor. Hermione narrowed her eyes at them, then cast her gaze to the fiery sunset – it would be dark soon. After she got out of Draco's room, she needed to find a way to get past those guards.

Hermione walked back into the room and realized she wasn't going to get very far dressed like  _this_.

The first genuine smile she'd had in a long time appeared on her face when she realized that she was in a  _man's_  room, which meant  _men's_  clothing.

She flung the doors to his wardrobe open and grinned wide when she found Draco's wardrobe. They were a bit large, but she could make them work after a few minor adjustments. After Hermione changed out of her dreadful gown and into a plain, white linen shirt and brown leather breeches, she was feeling better than she had in  _months_.

While Hermione tied her hair back with a bit of cloth she ripped off one of Draco's expensive shirts, she set to work.

* * *

After months of meticulous planning, everything was going perfectly.

Well, everything aside from the little hiccup of the date of the wedding being changed, but it was no matter. He'd planned on arriving two weeks before the wedding, because of shipment scheduling conflicts, but the date change worked in his favor.

"Captain!"

Tom pulled his spyglass away from his gaze on Port Royal to look down at his first mate. "Yes, Wormtail?"

A pudgy, middle-aged man with mousy, straw-colored hair fidgeted nervously from below on the deck. "Everything is ready! We're just waiting for your orders, Captain."

Tom looked through his spyglass again and found Malfoy Manor. His ship, the Death Eater, was perfectly aligned with the setting sun, so they were invisible to everyone on land and in the port. A thrill of excitement coursed through him when he realized how close he was to ruining the Malfoy's lives, like they had ruined his. What better way to get back at Lucius for stealing his family fortune and causing his mother so much heartache and guilt that she took her own life, than by stealing away his only son's betrothed?

He'd thought about just going in and killing them all to just be done with it, but where would the glory be in that? No, Tom wanted to personally see Lucius Malfoy suffer, and this was a good way to start.

It was perfect. He would demand a hefty ransom for her safe return, only to never return her after the ransom was paid. Tom hadn't thought of what he would do with her afterward – probably maroon her on some island or make her walk the plank. It really didn't matter to him; he'd probably leave it up his crew to decide what to do with her. If he were to do that, he hoped that she prayed to her God every night before bed, because nothing but a miracle would save her then.

And he couldn't help but to think of the best part of it all – how Lucius was finally going to  _see_  Tom's face when he stole Draco's pampered little plaything away.

Tom rarely partook in the pillaging and plundering with his crew, as he had to maintain that air of mystery to instill that crippling fear as the dreaded Captain Voldemort. He was the brains behind the brawn, because what kind of person would be terrified of a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old man?

The answer? No one.

So, no one, aside from his crew, knew what the real Captain Voldemort looked like. He'd heard tales of himself, of course. He'd heard tales that he was a monster; that he was only part human; that he was part sea serpent; that he didn't have a heart, nor soul; that he was the living version of Davy Jones. The stories were ridiculous, but he thrived off the fear he left in his wake.

Tom tilted his head to the side, and supposed that the wedding date being changed was symbolic, that all of this was  _meant_  to happen, that Calypso was smiling down on him in favor.

He caught a fleeting sight of who he assumed was Draco's fiancée standing on a balcony in an elaborate cream-colored gown that looked like it was lit aflame by the setting sun. The only distinctive feature he noticed before she turned back into the manor was her dark, wild curls.

A familiar memory surfaced in his mind of a free-spirited girl with the sunset and wind caught in her frizzy hair – a memory of second-hand revenge and hardtack and sugar.

Why had he thought of her again? Now, of all times?

Tom's brow furrowed as he focused his spyglass on the balcony for a closer look, but it was too far away. Honestly, he didn't know much about Draco's fiancée – he'd never bothered to find out. All he knew was that she was the daughter of some rich plantation owner. Fitting, wasn't it? He wondered if Lucius was behind that business venture, as well.

He brought the spyglass down, collapsed it, and slipped it onto his belt. "Wormtail."

"Yes, Captain?" the man squeaked.

Tom pointed with his chin toward the port. "Tell Bellatrix that she may begin. Naval vessels first. Kill everyone on board –  _quietly,_  so that means no pistols, no muskets. We don't need to give ourselves away before we've even made it to land. Give no quarter. Disable their rudders, then move to the rendezvous on land. Oh, and Wormtail?"

"Yes, Captain?"

A cruel smile twisted Tom's features. "Hoist the colors high."

Wormtail nodded enthusiastically. "Right away, Captain!"

"Excellent," Tom replied, watching some of his crew lower the boats into the water and stealthily row toward the port now that the sunlight was nearly gone. He adjusted the smallsword on his belt, then jumped into the last boat with Antonin Dolohov and Bella's husband, Rodolphus Lestrange.

"Welcome aboard, Captain," Antonin grinned while running his hand over his beard on his chin before grabbing the oars.

Tom leaned back and smiled. "Are you boys ready to have a bit of fun?"

"As always," replied Rodolphus.

* * *

So far, things weren't going exactly to plan. Draco's room was a complete disaster.

Hermione paced around the room, trying to think of way to escape. She was half-tempted to tear Draco's bedding and clothes into strips to make a rope and climb down the balcony, but she knew she'd be caught by the guards down below in a heartbeat.

_Speaking of the guards…_

She ran back out onto the balcony. Night had fallen, but she could still hear the muffled sound of pre-wedding festivities going on in the ballroom that she hadn't been allowed to attend.

"Fine by me," she muttered to herself, then looked down. The guards were still below, playing cards and drinking rum now. That was good – the drunker they were, the better.

Hermione narrowed her eyes out on the port when she noticed something strange – there were no night candles lit on many of the ships anchored down. That was… _odd_. They were always lit at night, so ships didn't crash into one another.

Shaking the thought from her head, Hermione went back in and decided to try and pick the lock. Her Papa taught her how to pick the locks of the iron shackles he kept on his ship, so she assumed it was the same principle.

She pulled two pins out of her hair and got to work. The lock wasn't complex, but it was difficult to pick with no light. With each minute that ticked by, Hermione's desperation increased. She had to get out while Draco was busy – she had to get away from him at all costs. She'd steal some valuables to sell, then go into hiding until she was old enough to legally take over her father's business.

After wasting precious time on the lock, she tucked the pins back into her hair and let out a frustrated sigh. She sat like that on the floor, looking around the room for something –  _any_ thing.

It was then that she noticed that it was rather quiet; she couldn't hear the guards anymore. Hermione reasoned with herself that they'd probably gotten a stern talking to about drinking and gambling while on duty. But when she peered over the balcony one last time, she realized how very wrong she was.

Fresh blood was pooling over the cards scattered across the ground…their throats had been slit. Hermione took a quick catalogue of the area, but aside from the two bodies, nothing was out of place. Even the merriment in the ballroom carried on as if nothing had happened.

A strong gust blew from the east, causing a part in the clouds to open that allowed the light of the moon to shine down on Port Royal. That's when she saw it – the green flag with a black serpent emerging from the mouth of a skull.

Hermione's knees buckled and she grasped the bannister for support when her breath left her.

"The Death Eater," she whispered in disbelief. "Captain Voldemort is in Port Royal."

She'd heard stories of Captain Voldemort, and none of them were good. He'd only been active for a year or two, but tales of his cruelty had spread like wildfire amongst the islands. The British Navy had a bounty on his head so high that any man who caught him would be set for life. The only problem was, most men didn't dare go looking for him. The few who had been brave enough to go searching had turned up dead…or hadn't turned up at all. Many ships had had the misfortune of crossing paths with the Death Eater, and they all had one thing in common: little to no survivors.

Villages attacked by Captain Voldemort didn't fare much better…they were always left in ruin. His crew killed men and women and children. Hermione knew that even amongst pirates, he was considered a scoundrel.

This was…this was not good. The most dangerous pirate in the entire Caribbean was infiltrating Port Royal  _right now_  and she was stuck in a bloody  _bedroom_.

This was no time to panic.

Alright, fine. It was a perfectly acceptable time to panic, but this was just distraction she could use to her advantage. It would be the perfect opportunity to escape.

With this thought in mind, Hermione snatched the brass candelabra from the nightstand, strode purposefully toward the door, and heaved the base down on the doorknob as hard as she could. The jewel-encrusted doorknob dropped to the floor with a quiet thud and the door creaked open.

Her eyes went wide with excitement; she had  _not_  been expecting that to work the first time.

She snatched up the doorknob, knowing it would feed her for a few months, and slinked off into the hallway.

The fact that there were no guards outside Draco's door was unsettling – that meant that the pirates had made their presence known, which meant she had less time to escape, which  _also_  meant that Draco would be sending guards up to collect her at any moment.

Hermione ran as fast as she could toward her room first – there was something important she needed. As she went to turn a corner, she heard a watery rasping sound, and halted dead in her tracks. Her heart pounded against her chest and she pressed her back against the wall, too terrified to peek around the corner. Whoever was there, they were right in front of her quarters.

As Hermione stood there, debating on what to do, she realized she was still holding the doorknob in one hand and the candelabra in the other. She looked back and forth between the two utterly  _useless_  objects and panicked.  _What in the_ _ **world**_ _am I going to do!?_

She heard the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor, then a sword being wiped clean. Hermione squeezed her eyes tight and carefully pocketed the doorknob, then clutched the candelabra to her chest.

_What should I do? What should I do?_

"Hermione? Hermione! She's gone! They've taken her! Find her  _now_!" came a distant yell back from where she'd come. It was Draco.  _Shit._  She was shocked that he'd come himself to retrieve her, and –  _wait_.

Draco thought they'd  _kidnapped_  her.

She took a deep breath. What she was about to do was either the cleverest and the daftest idea she'd ever come up with.

Hermione whirled around the corner, with only the old candelabra as a weapon, and came face to face with a handsome young man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a surprised look on his face that was quickly disguised by a look of mild interest. Hermione's eyes darted down to the body lying outside her door, then back to the man.

"Kidnap me," she rushed out, breathless.

His eyebrows lifted. "Pardon?"

Hermione's eyes darted nervously down to the movement of him unsheathing his shortsword again, suddenly wondering if she'd made the right decision when she spotted the blood staining the hilt. She looked back at him, then licked her lips uneasily. "I'm asking you to kidnap me. You're a pirate, are you not?"

"I'm not in the business of bartering with servant girls," he replied coldly, then quickly swung his sword down on her.

Hermione shot the candelabra out in front of her to guard against his attack. Metal clanging against metal made her arms vibrate. "I'm not a servant girl, you idiot!" she snapped, pushing his sword away with the candelabra. "I'm Draco Malfoy's fiancée!"

He lowered his sword, but his face was impossible to read, so Hermione kept her guard up.

"Liar," he accused, casually pointing at her wardrobe with his sword. "Look at the state of you. It's inconceivable that a Malfoy would ever willingly wed you."

Her mouth fell open at his insult, but she recovered quickly. "It's because Lucius wants control of my father's plantation, and he knows forcing me to marry his son is the surest way to make that happen. I've been trying to escape for months. If you kidnap me now, the Malfoy's will pay  _any_  amount of riches to get me back. I can help your captain and crew make a fortune and isn't that why you're here? To plunder and pillage and all that nonsense? This is an easy alternative."

The man looked her up and down doubtfully. " _If_  I were to help you, what's in it for you?"

Hermione lowered the candelabra and replied with a pained expression, " _Freedom_. After the ransom is paid, I have zero intention of returning here."

"And  _if_  I were to help you," he paused, circling her slowly to examine her. He stopped in front of her, and his lips furled into an almost-smile. "What's in it for me?"

Hermione swallowed nervously, feeling unexpectedly warm. "I'm inheriting my father's business when I turn eighteen. I'll reward you handsomely once I take over. You have my word."

He leaned in close and replied menacingly, "Your word is worthless to me, girl."

"Well, words are all I've got until I turn eighteen," she snapped back.

He turned from her then, and started walking back the way he'd come. Hermione dropped the candelabra and chased after him. She grabbed his sleeve and slapped the jeweled doorknob into his palm.

"There," she said breathlessly, "an assurance. Or advance, if you will."

He turned the item over curiously, seeming to be seriously considering her offer now that he had more of a solid incentive. Then, she heard Draco and his men barreling down the hallway toward them. Hermione didn't wait for him to decide. She ran to her door, threw it open, and started rummaging through her nightstand. He followed behind her, more interested in the treasure than anything else.

The man slid the doorknob into his pocket and said, "I suppose we've got an accord, then."

"Perfect." Hermione pulled her mother's compass necklace out of the drawer and smiled at it lovingly. So busy she was, that she ended up missing the fleeting look of perplexed recognition he gave the compass. It was gone before she turned on him again.

"Listen," she started, quickly pulling the necklace over her head and tucking it into her blouse, "if we're going to do this, we need to leave –  _now_."

The man narrowed his dark eyes at her suspiciously. "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't, and we  _really_  don't have time for this. Draco will be here any moment and you're supposed to be kidnapping me, remember?"

"Right," he agreed, pulled out his sword, and hauled her roughly out of the room by her forearm.

"That hurts! What are you doing?" she cried out.

"Hermione!" she heard Draco yell from behind them. Hermione turned to look behind her as best as she could with the pirate gripping her arm.

There was Draco, standing on the other side of the guard's body at the end of the hall, panting and looking absolutely  _mad_. "You! Pirate! Let her go!"

"Hmm, I don't think that I shall," the young man answered arrogantly, yanked her forward, and they began to run. It was as if he knew exactly where he was going, judging by the way he rounded corners and took through doorways with such confidence. Hermione's heart raced by the thrill of it all and she couldn't help but be enthralled by the stranger.

"You know, this might be a more convincing kidnapping if you were screaming," he told her right before he pushed the main entrance doors open.

Hermione looked up at him right as the moonlight hit his face and she hated sounding like the silly girls in some of the books she'd read, but she'd truly forgotten how to  _breath_. She'd found him somewhat handsome in the darkness of the manor, but now that they were  _outside_  –

 _Wait_.

Hermione swelled with elation. They were  _outside_.

Her smile quickly fell, because she realized it wasn't just  _them_  outside – Voldemort's entire  _crew_  had overtaken Port Royal. Pistols were blazing, cutlasses were clashing, houses and trees were set ablaze, and the townspeople were running for their lives.

One of the stable boys, not older than fourteen, was running toward the front gates. Hermione watched on in horror as a pale woman with dark hair wilder than her own sliced the boy down with one fluid movement. She cackled when his body dropped to the dirt, and started chasing a crying woman down the road.

He pulled her toward the gate and Hermione didn't need to pretend anymore – she was really screaming and fighting against the man's grip. She didn't want to go with these people! She hadn't realized how bad they really were! She'd heard they would kill innocent women and children, but she hadn't  _believed_  it! What had she been thinking!? Was this really the better alternative?

"Release her, at once!"

Hermione stopped struggling at the sound of Lucius' voice. They turned around to see the older Malfoy wielding a musket aimed at them. Draco skidded to a stop next to his father at the bottom of the front steps, causing gravel to go flying.

Her captor whirled her around, grabbed a fistful of her hair at the nape of her neck, and pressed her back against his chest. She didn't know where he'd pulled it from, but he pressed the cool barrel of a pistol underneath her chin. Hermione inhaled sharply, silently praying this was all part of the act, but he was doing a little  _too_  good of a job.

"Lucius," he replied charismatically, as if he weren't currently digging a pistol into her skin. "I was hoping we'd see each other again before I left."

"See each other again…?" Lucius trailed off, scowling slightly. "I must apologize, but do I know you?"

Hermione felt his cheeks widen with a smile against her temple. "No, but you soon will."

"Let Hermione go!" Draco shouted and lunged forward, but Lucius stopped him. The pirate yanked Hermione's hair tighter and pressed the barrel a little deeper into her skin. Real tears sprang to her eyes and she couldn't help but to wonder as to how she ended up in this situation. Why did her Papa have to die?

She felt him go rigid. He murmured into her ear, "That is your name? Hermione?"

"Y-yes," she stammered, almost too afraid to answer him.

"And what is your surname,  _Hermione_?"

"Granger."

His grip on her hair loosened marginally. She dared to whisper back a question of her own: "And what is yours? What should I call you?"

She swore she would get no answer from him, but was surprised when his breath went warm against the shell of her ear, "Tom."

"Tom," she repeated softly, feeling him tense up behind her, like a serpent ready to strike.

"I'm afraid that I cannot do that," he raised his voice again to answer Draco. "You see, while your fiancée may be priceless to  _you_ , she has a worth to  _me_."

"You get your  _filthy_  hands off her, you –" Draco started, but was interrupted by his father holding up his hand.

"Pray, tell me: what is her worth to you, boy?" Lucius asked mockingly, seeming to hold very little regard for her safety.

_That vile, despicable, little…_

"I'll send my terms in a letter," Tom answered formally.

Hermione couldn't help but make a face at all this nonsense. Were all pirates this proper?

She didn't get to think on it further, because one of the fiery palm trees crashed to the ground between them and the Malfoys. The last thing she saw before they took off running again was Draco's incensed expression on the other side of the flames, and the last thing she heard was Lucius' frustrated scream.


	4. IV.

IV.

* * *

This was a problem.

A problem which manifested itself into the flesh and bones of the daughter of the man he owed so much to –  _no_  – of whom he owed his  _life_  to.

He hadn't dared risk attending Henry's funeral, even though pirates were given temporary immunity for the occasion. Tom hadn't wanted to risk it. No one knew his face and he'd wanted to keep it that way. The only person, outside of his crew, he wanted to know his face was Lucius Malfoy – he wanted to see the recognition burning in Malfoy's eyes right before he ruthlessly snuffed that light out.

Tom's fingers gently ran over the bejeweled doorknob she'd given to him in exchange for his help, his mind racing over the recent events. It was hard to keep focused on how everything had gone to plan, spectacularly so, when he knew the girl was locked in the brig down below. That was what was supposed to happen, wasn't it?

Only…it wasn't supposed to be  _her_. It wasn't supposed to be the girl whom he'd envied, the girl whom had everything he was supposed to have, the girl whom he'd secretly admired as a boy.

Tom thought that maybe she would have recognized him, but perhaps he'd set his expectations up too high when it came to her intellect. He hadn't really  _known_  her when they were younger; he'd mostly heard stories of her from her father when Tom was his cabin boy.

"But that was years ago. I am a boy, no longer," he muttered to himself, taking another swig of his rum. He glared at the doorknob sitting on his table, as if it had offended him greatly.

He knocked it off the table with the back of his hand. It slowly rolled across the floor, and bumped up against a chest filled with treasures and trinkets significantly greater.

He'd almost forgotten who he was – who he'd worked so hard to become.

Tom steadied his breath and firmly whispered, "I…am Captain Voldemort."

He would leave his crew to care for the girl, under  _very_  strict orders.

* * *

Two days later, another problem arose.

"She's not eating, Captain."

Tom hadn't bothered looking up from the nautical charts laid out in front of him. He asked, preoccupied, " _Who's_  not eating, Wormtail?"

"O-our hostage – Malfoy's bride."

That caught Tom's attention. His eyes snapped up to see Wormtail fidgeting under his intense gaze. "Is she ill?"

"Well, n-no…" the meek man stammered.

"Is the food not up to her liking?" Tom asked.

"I…I don't  _think_  so, sir."

Tom tilted his head to the side and scowled. "Then what seems to be the problem?"

"She said she won't eat until she speaks with you, sir."

His eyebrows raised and he muttered, more to himself than to Wormtail, "She's going on a hunger strike until she speaks with the captain of this ship?  _Stupid_  girl…"

"A-a-actually, Captain…she meant she won't eat until she sees – well…until she sees… _you_ , sir."

Tom froze. The girl wanted to see  _him_ –  _not_  Captain Voldemort?

He concealed his smirk behind his hand. Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps she  _did_  remember him. Well, if she wanted to see  _him_ , then he supposed he would just give her what she asked for.

* * *

Tom had been entirely wrong in his assumptions of why she'd wanted to see him.

"How  _dare_  you forget about me down here. We had a  _deal_ , you snake," she hissed from behind her iron bars.

He may or may not have forgotten about their deal that he had had zero intention of following through with.

"Plans have changed," he stated indifferently, crossing his arms and looking bored.

"Plans!?" she shrieked. " _What_  plans!?"

"Plans that you are not privy to," he sneered nastily. Henry had exaggerated the tales of his daughter greatly and he felt oddly agitated about it – almost as if he'd had expectations that hadn't been met.

Hermione's mouth fell open in indignation. "You –  _you_ …ohh, ho-ho-ho-ho. You're incredibly blessed that I am stuck in here."

Tom raised his brow. "Oh, don't I know it. Imagine if I were forced to listen to you prattle on all day. You truly must be worth a hefty sum if Malfoy actually  _wants_  to wed you."

" _You_ –" she started, but Tom interrupted with a shit-eating grin.

"Me."

"I don't want to talk to you anymore. Bring me to Captain Voldemort," she demanded.

Tom pushed a tray with hardtack biscuits, cheese, and wine underneath the bars. "If you eat, then perhaps we'll discuss it."

He left to walk back up the stairs and his lips twitched in amusement when he heard the tray and food clatter noisily against the iron bars, along with her frustrated scream.

* * *

The next day, he checked in on her himself. He was certain Wormtail would soil himself if he had to deal with the her again – she was a right pain in the arse.

"Still not eating, are you?" he asked conversationally.

"Still not keeping your word, are you?" she mimicked spitefully.

Tom's eyes narrowed. Hermione rolled her eyes and looked away, like a petulant child.

Maybe he'd send Fenrir down to deal with her, instead. He had a special talent of persuading people by his presence alone.

* * *

Tom failed to realize that the girl had a special talent of pissing off every member of his crew in the most personal way possible. He made a note to himself to  _never_  send Fenrir down to deal with her again.

Fenrir was a burly man, but when Tom raised his voice, demanding he leave before he got the 'captain', Fenrir grumbled a few choice words, then skulked away. His entire crew was in on the little charade he was playing. He knew they were curious, but none of them questioned it. They all knew whatever he did, it was  _always_  for a reason.

As he hammered one of the iron bars back into place that Fenrir tried to rip out to get to her after she insulted his mother, he realized that the girl must have a death wish.

He looked at her sleeping form in the makeshift bed of hay in the corner, wondering if maybe she was just mental.

His heart stuttered when he saw she wasn't asleep, but silently watching him, like he had been watching her.

"Thank you," he thought he heard her whisper.

When Tom was sitting in his quarters that evening, he tried thinking of the reason why he was wasting his time with her, but it wouldn't come. All he could think of was how no one had ever thanked him for anything before.

* * *

The next day, Tom remembered something he'd learned about her as a boy.

"What is this?" she asked, looking distrustfully at the worn book he nudged underneath the bars.

"It's a book. You  _do_  know how to read, don't you?"

Hermione scowled at him, offended.

"Of  _course_ , I know how to read," she replied, cautiously taking the book in her hands and turning it over. "I meant, why are you giving this to me?"

"Well," Tom replied, standing to leave, "since you will not nourish your body, the very least you could do is nourish your mind."

Hermione looked him up and down with an unsure expression, then brought her attention back to the book.

She opened the pages, and began to read.

* * *

The day after, she hungrily took another book from him, but refused his food again after he told her she still would not be seeing Captain Voldemort that day.

He watched her while she was preoccupied with reading aloud.

Her cheekbones looked bigger.

This time, Tom stayed.

* * *

"You know," Tom mused, his back pressed against a crate of spices. "I'm beginning to think that you might enjoy my company."

Hermione's head lolled to the side away from him tiredly, but he could still hear the humor in her tone. "I wouldn't be entirely certain of that just yet – I still have the goats to talk to."

As if on cue, one of the nanny's nearby let out an ear-grating bleat.

Her laugh constricted his chest.

* * *

"I'm not eating that."

Tom sighed with frustration, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. This had been going on for far too long now. For days, he'd come down with an offering of his own food and wine and books (he would never tell her they were his personal items, of course), all because he felt like he owed Henry the common courtesy of keeping his only child alive until he figured out what to do with her while he waited for the ransom money. He silently prayed to the gods to give him patience, for his was wearing dangerously thin.

Hermione was glaring up at him stubbornly from her spot on the dirty floor of her prison. Her wild hair was even wilder from the humidity, and there were bits of hay sticking out in places. Her tanned skin was smudged with filth and the shadows underneath her eyes were dark.

All in all, she was not a pretty sight.

"You need to eat. It's been over a week and you cannot live off wine," he replied through gritted teeth.

Hermione pushed herself up, and walked to the bars separating them. She casually pressed her cheek against one of them and smiled sweetly. She asked, "If I eat for you, will you let me speak with Captain Voldemort?"

Tom frowned slightly at her sudden change of tone, wondering if she had only bothered speaking to him this entire time, thinking it would get her an audience with  _Voldemort_. She still had no idea who he really was. He hadn't told her anything, but she'd just assumed he was part of the crew. So, he used it in his favor.

"No," he replied coldly, suddenly feeling a familiar emotion well up within that had never been attributed to sharing attention before, even if it was technically with himself - _jealousy_.

He watched as her sweet facade turned into bared teeth. "Then you can tell your arsehole of a  _captain_  that he can shove that hardtack he keeps sending down to me  _right_  up his –"

Tom threw the biscuits down angrily at her feet, getting in her face. Hermione glared back at him, refusing to back down. Adrenaline pumped through him as his upper lip curled and he replied dangerously, "Then I suppose you can just starve."

" _Piss off_ , Tom," she replied.

Tom stormed away, and left her there.

No one on the ship dared approach him for the rest of the day.

* * *

It was distressingly clear that Tom was  _not_  going to allow her to discuss her plans anytime soon. She wasn't sure as to why, considering it was easy money for him, but she wasn't about to try and understand the thought process of a pirate.

Another distressing thought came to mind when she realized that he might just be using her to get the ransom all for himself. Her papa always said that she was a bit too trusting. A lesson learned, to be sure.

That's when Hermione decided she'd waited long enough; she wasn't going to risk her safety any longer. If she could escape from the clutches of the Malfoys, she could escape the clutches of pirates.

So, in the dead of night, when everyone was fast asleep or sloshed with spirits, she pulled the hidden pins out of her hair.

* * *

Sneaking out had been easy, but borrowing necessary supplies had been even easier. No one stood guard. She'd snuck past a drunken pirate or two, passed out where they'd fallen. It was as if the entire crew felt confident that they were under no immediate threat.

 _Fools, they are_ , she thought to herself as she stole one of their swords.

Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes at their arrogance right before she slipped into one of the boats. Her main obstacle now was lowering the boat into the water as quietly as possible, which was a challenge all in itself, since she lost some of her strength from not eating the past week.

She struggled with the ropes and pulleys in the dark for several minutes, but grinned to herself once she found the bit of rope she needed to tug for it to come loose.

Right as she went to tug on the rope, she felt someone grab her by the back of her shirt. Her eyes shot up and she saw the darkness of the ocean in a pair of turbulent eyes. She quickly noticed those eyes belonged to the now enraged, pale face of Tom scowling down at her.

"Who in the _Hell_ let you out?" he hissed.

Hermione's eyes shot back to the rope and pulleys, then back to him, a newfound determination coursing through her.

"I did," she answered, then grabbed the sword she'd stolen, and swung at the rope. The boat dropped and her stomach dropped and… _Tom_  dropped –  _right_  into the sea.

Hermione landed hard on her back against the small mast, but quickly clambered to one end of the boat when a soaking wet Tom pulled himself into the boat with her. She watched as he sat on his hands and knees, coughing up saltwater. He slowly turned his head to give her the gift of the most vicious look she'd ever received.

She swallowed nervously, and hastily pointed the sword at him. "Don't you dare come near me."

"You miserable wench," he spat, pulling himself up to sit on his knees. "What in the world are you doing!?"

"I'm  _escaping_!"

"You call  _this_ ," he replied incredulously, motioning with his hands around them, "escaping!?"

Hermione faltered, suddenly unsure of her plan. "Um…yes?"

Tom slapped a hand to his face and groaned. "You wouldn't survive a day in open sea in this dinghy all by yourself. The sail is damaged and the rudder doesn't work at all."

"Why would a non-functioning boat be kept aboard a ship of that size? That's idiotic," she criticized, lowering her sword.

" _Because_  we use this one to throw drunkards in whenever they need some time to sober up. We tie a rope to it and let it trail behind the ship," he explained, then ran a hand through his wet hair in frustration. "Why am I even explaining this to you? I'm taking you back to the ship -  _now_."

Hermione huffed, crossed her arms, and pointed with her chin in his direction. "Yeah, good luck with that."

Tom's eyes widened in alarm at her statement, then he hastily turned around.

The corner of Hermione's mouth lifted when she watched Tom shout obscenities, and hit the surface of the water with his fist repeatedly once he realized one of the ropes she'd cut had been tied it to the ship.

The Death Eater had caught a strong gust of wind in its sails and it was long gone.

* * *

He wished she'd just  _shut up_.

"This is all your fault, you know," she told him after she'd complained about being thirsty for the tenth time the next morning. Tom's side of the boat held all the food and drink she stole from the ship, so he was in control of rations. There was an unspoken rule that each of them stayed on their own side – which he only followed, because she had a sword, while he did not. And he  _knew_  that she knew how to use it, but he wasn't sure how well; it wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

Tom had been ignoring her bitching and the intense heat by laying back and listening to the water lap against the boat, but he couldn't ignore her this time. He lifted his head up and replied, "Excuse me? Please, enlighten me as to how this is my fault."

Hermione was still sitting on the opposite side of the boat. She started, "If  _you_  hadn't locked me in the brig –"

Tom interrupted, "And if  _you_  hadn't tried  _escaping_ –"

"– and just let me _speak_  with Captain Voldemort in the beginning, like we'd  _agreed_  on –" she continued.

"We never agreed on anything of the sort!"

"– then we wouldn't be in this situation right now!" she shrieked.

They were both breathing heavily, glaring at each other, when Tom suddenly realized that she was close enough to touch now. All he had to do was simply reach out and –

He'd been so distracted by her proximity that he hadn't even realized there was cold steel pressed against his throat. She looked wild and feral and  _beautiful_. The adrenaline quickening through his blood sent it to places it really oughtn't. He did  _not_  like not being in control of himself.

"I'm slowly beginning to realize that you aren't even  _worth_  the ransom anymore," he whispered quietly, cruelly.

It was the first time he saw anything other than fire and resolve in her eyes. He'd killed it.

"Thank you for reminding me," she whispered in the same tone – quietly, cruelly – her eyes flicking over his face, "that I will always have a monetary value in this world."

Hermione was the first to pull away and sit back down.

Tom got his wish; she remained silent for a long while.

* * *

As he worked on the rudder in the setting sun that day, he repeatedly told himself that he'd meant the words he spoke.

She still did not speak.

* * *

They laid together, side by side, in the little shade the mast and sail provided – a truce unspoken. The sword lay on the bottom of the boat, their safeguards forgotten underneath the sweltering sun.

She'd fallen asleep, he could tell, even though he did not look at her; he could hear her deep, even breaths.

Her deep, even breaths were what Tom fell asleep to.

* * *

Tom awoke to the sound of tearing fabric.

Hermione was using the sword to cut away pieces of the sail.

"What are you doing!? We need that once I get the rudder working!" he asked her, jumping to his feet in alarm.

Hermione continued working. She grabbed the pieces and started fastening them together. She ignored his question and asked, "Pass me that bucket, will you?"

"What? Why?" he asked. It was the first time she'd spoken in almost two days.

"It's going to rain," she answered, as if it was the only explanation he needed.

Tom looked to the horizon and saw the grey clouds approaching. If he had been a common man, he wouldn't've understood what she was doing. Luckily for him, he was no common man.

He passed her the bucket.

It was the second time she looked him in the eyes and thanked him.

* * *

"Do you ever wonder what your meaning is?" she asked him after the sun had fallen behind the sea.

Tom took a sip of the rainwater they'd collected, then ran his tongue over his chapped lips as he watched her in the moonlight from his side of the boat; she was lying down, staring up at the sky. The rain had cleaned her skin and her hair, and now her curls looked how he'd remembered them – wild and free, like her.

"None of us have a meaning. Your life is what you make of it," he answered dispassionately.

She turned to him then and he felt his gut clench; the night skies made diamonds in her eyes.

"You're wrong, you know," she said quietly, still observing him.

He scoffed. "How am I wrong?"

"Everyone has meaning, even if they don't know it yet."

"You're just being sentimental."

Hermione shifted up on her elbows. "And you're just being willfully ignorant. Are you really going to sit there and tell me that you truly believe that you were born into this world for no reason, other than to exist?"

"Yes," he replied stubbornly, even if he didn't entirely agree.

She sighed. "Then it is no wonder that you've never amounted to anything more than who you are."

Tom frowned. "What is  _that_  supposed to mean?"

For a long moment, she studied him. Then she shook her head and rolled onto her side, facing away from him. "Goodnight, Tom."

He'd wanted to tell her that, no, it was  _not_  'goodnight, Tom'. He'd wanted to demand her -  _threaten_  her - to explain herself, but instead, he selfishly studied the curve of her hips as the boat rocked.

_Then it is no wonder that you've never amounted to anything more than who you are._

The words spun through his mind like a vicious cyclone, looping through his mind over and over and over again, stealing away his sleep. And the more he thought about it, the more frustrated he became.

What did _she_  know? Her father kept her sheltered, hidden away from slave traders looking for pretty girls to fill their brothels. What had  _she_  experienced in her lifetime?

Nothing, compared to him. He had built his empire using dirt and sweat and fear.

He'd wanted to tell her,  _scream_  at her who he really was, tell her how he  _had_  amounted to more, tell her the things he'd seen – the things he'd  _accomplished_ , but something always held him back.

Tom laid there, watching her chest rise and fall, and realized why he hadn't told her yet: she would come to fear him, if he did.

"What is this feeling?" he murmured to the stars, to the gods, to the sea, waiting for an answer.

The only answer he received was the sound of the sea.

* * *

"There! To the right! No, I meant  _your_  right, not  _mine_. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, just give it here," Hermione grumbled, and went to snatch the makeshift spear she'd made away from him, but he pulled it out of her reach.

"Gods, woman, I know what I'm doing. It's not like I've never speared for fish before."

Hermione stood, and put her hands on her hips. "Obviously, you haven't, because then you'd know the difference between right and left."

Tom ground his teeth together and did his best to ignore her words. He liked her better when she was asleep.

A good-sized Mahi-mahi was swimming lazily near the boat, and Tom was poised, ready to strike. He just needed for it to move closer, closer, just a  _little bit_  closer…

Everything was going fine, until Hermione caught her foot in the pieces of shredded sail and went flying overboard. When she hit the water, it startled the fish closer to Tom. He threw the spear with all his strength, piercing it through its head, killing it instantly.

Hermione shrieked for help, trying to grab the side of the rocking boat, but couldn't get a good enough grip to haul herself up.

Tom kept looking between her and the fish, trying to figure out which he should pull up first. If he went for her first, they'd lose the fish to the sharks in a feeding frenzy. Blood was pooling in the blue water around the fish in graceful ribbons. If he went for the fish first, she would be fine, since she was a good distance away from the fish.

With that logic in mind, he started hauling the heavy fish out of the water.

"Tom!" she cried out.

He used all his energy to pull the fish up quicker. Once he had the fish in the boat, he turned around, expecting to see her trying to pull herself up, but she wasn't there – she was gone.

"Hermione…?" he called out cautiously.

There was no reply.

Tom swore, then jumped to the other side of the boat just in time to see an unconscious Hermione sinking  _down, down, down_ , her dark hair swimming around her like an ethereal creature.

For the first time in his entire life, he felt panic for another human being.

Wasting no time, Tom tied the rope attached to the boat around his waist, and dove in after her.

After he'd lugged her back into the boat with him, he realized she wasn't breathing. He tilted her chin back, pinched her nose, and touched his lips to hers. Each time he filled her lungs with air, he silently screamed at her to  _breathe_ ,  _breathe,_ _ **breathe**_ _, Hermione,_ _ **breathe**_.

As if the gods had heard his pleas, Hermione coughed up saltwater. Tom held her up in his arm, and pushed her wet hair from her face with his free hand. "Hermione! Are you alright?"

Her disoriented eyes focused on him in wonder. His chest twisted viciously, and his skin burned where it touched hers.

_What is this feeling?_

The sound of the sea lapped against the boat as he waited for her to answer.

"I don't know how to swim, you arsehole," she croaked weakly.

Tom held back the beginning of a smile twitching at his lips. Of course, she'd be the only one to reprimand the person who'd just saved her life. "How was I supposed to know that you cannot swim?"

Hermione pushed herself up in his arms and deadpanned, "You chose a bloody  _fish_  over me."

"We have food and you're alive; be thankful."

"I am," she replied.

And for a third time, she thanked him.

* * *

_Land._

They'd found  _land._

This was good news, so why did he feel disappointment?


	5. V.

V.

* * *

"Hey! That's mine!" Hermione yelled, stomping after him on the beach.

"And whom did you steal this from?" he asked, throwing the bag of leftover supplies over his shoulder.

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "I didn't  _steal_ it! I was just borrowing it! I plan on paying it back when I can."

Tom turned his head to the side over his shoulder. "You can word it as prettily as you want, girl; but it doesn't change the fact that you stole from the most feared pirate in the Caribbean. I think you'd make a better pirate than you even realize, with that foolish bravery."

He walked away from her and into the tree line. He couldn't keep the triumphant smirk off his face when he heard her following closely behind him.

His smirk widened when she stomped ahead of him, grumbling, "I am no pirate; I am  _nothing_  like you."

"If you work hard enough, you just might be – one day," he replied dryly.

She whipped around and he halted in his tracks. He noticed how her fist clenched at her side when she replied, "That was  _not_  a compliment, Tom."

* * *

Hermione caught herself watching him rinse himself off underneath a small waterfall they'd found. She looked away, frowning at the fact that she'd been ogling him almost the entire time. She did  _not_ ogle –  _period_. She told herself it wasn't her fault; he'd taken his shirt off and he  _was_  handsome, but that was beside the point. He was a vile, wicked, self-centered pirate.

Hermione glanced up at him again, but he hadn't noticed. She turned away. He was dangerous and she was no fool.

She couldn't help but look up at him one last time, watching the water cascade down his lean body, and think to herself that 'handsome' wasn't the right word. No, that wasn't the right word, at all – he was  _beautiful_.

As she bent over to collect fresh water, she absently touched her lips, remembering the phantom touch of his, and hating herself for wishing that it would happen again.

* * *

Torrential downpours in the thick jungle led them to a small, wet cavern to wait out the storm.

"What did you mean?" he asked.

Hermione glanced up at him. He was rummaging through the last of their food supply, then pulled out a hardtack biscuit for himself. She'd been trying to read one of his books, but the pages were soaked, causing the ink to spread like veins across the paper. She closed the book and sighed agitatedly. "Could you please be more specific?"

"When you said it was no wonder that I'd never amounted to anything more than who I am – what did you mean by that?" he repeated, his dark eyes intensely staring her down.

"I think you know exactly what I meant," she replied, her eyes narrowed as he slowly and deliberately took a bite of the biscuit.

He took his time chewing before replying. "Enlighten me."

She decided it was pointless beating around the bush. If he'd wanted to kill her, he would have done it already. No more secrets.

"I know who you are, Tom."

He stared at her, frozen, waiting patiently – his dark, ocean eyes beckoning, pulling,  _dragging_  her to drown in their depths and –  _wait_.

Memories of a quiet cabin boy and hardtack and sugar and sunsets and the  _sea_ and –

Hermione took in a shuddered breath.

" _You_ ," she breathed. "I know who you are."

She hadn't realized how close he'd gotten. He was on his knees before her, his hands on either side of her crossed legs. His face was close, close, close,  _too close_  and he smelled of salt and steel and rain. It filled her nostrils, and made her feel faint.

Tom tilted his face toward hers, searching her eyes. He commanded quietly, "Tell me. Who am I, Hermione?"

Her eyelids fluttered, her hands settling gently on his shoulders when she whispered bitterly, "A  _liar_."

Then, she shoved a shocked Tom onto the ground, and ran out of the cavern and into the storm.

She knew it was stupid; she could get lost, or injured, or worse, but she couldn't handle being in his presence right now. It wasn't just the fact that he'd lied to her about being Captain Voldemort – she'd figured that one out as soon as that wolf-like man obeyed Tom so readily; it was also the fact that he'd known who she was,  _known_  her father, and he never breathed a word of it. She'd thought he'd saved her life, because maybe he wasn't as awful as he'd seemed, but he was worse: he'd pretended to care about her, even if it was only marginally, just so he could still use her. Everyone wanted to use her for their own gain and she was  _tired_  of it.

She had no one left in this world –  _no one_.

A large hand wrapped around her arm, and jerked her backward.

"Let me go!" she screamed, trying to rip her arm out of Tom's grasp.

"No! You're being stupid, Hermione," he yelled over the thundering rain. "You're going to get lost out here!"

"Good!" she cried out childishly, thankful that the rain hid her tears. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she was too upset to care.

"Why do you keep running from me, Hermione?"

"Why do you care? You just want something from me, like everyone else does. You're no different than the rest of them."

Tom took a step toward her, his eyes flashing dangerously. Hermione took a step away, her back bumping against the wide base of a tree. She hated how her heart raced when he was so close.

He leaned in close and asked, "And how am I like the rest of them?"

"Because of who you are!" she cried out again, shoving against his chest angrily. "You're a liar and you're a murderer and you're my father's cabin boy and you're  _–_ "

She paused, suddenly remembering who she was beating her fists against.

"Say it," he ordered coldly, his fingers leisurely climbing up her ribcage.

Hermione watched as her palms hovered over the white, wet fabric clinging to his chest, as if they had a mind of their own, but she knew that wasn't the case. As much as she hated to admit it, she  _wanted_  to touch him.

Her eyes lifted to his and those ocean eyes sucked her into their depths and she willingly let herself drown.

"Voldemort," she finished.

Tom surged forward, captured her lips with his, and their bodies collided to create a beautiful catastrophe.

His fingers were in her hair and her hands were pushing his shirt over his head. They broke apart long enough for Tom to toss his shirt in a bush. His lips brushed against her and she sucked in a breath when his fingertips trailed down her breasts.

"Say it again," he demanded, letting his thumb graze over her nipple.

Hermione didn't know how it had happened, but she desperately wanted something from him that she shouldn't.

"Voldemort," she repeated, willing to do whatever he wanted, as long as he'd just –

"Touch me," she ordered suddenly, and he obeyed her.

Her shirt was soon thrown with his and she ran her fingers through his wet hair and moaned as he rolled his tongue around her nipple, his hands rushing to remove her trousers, and then his.

And as they stood there, staring at each other's bodies in the downpour, Hermione wondered what in the Hell she was thinking. This was not something she'd been raised to do, or ever  _considered_  doing before, but she didn't want to stop. She wasn't even sure what to do, but Tom seemed to know.

He stepped toward her again, his hands finding her hips, his lips finding hers, his kisses less harsh. He pressed his hardness against her hip, and moaned into her mouth.

Hermione reached a hand down and grasped it, running her hand up and down the length, which caused him to break away from her with a hiss. He pressed his forehead against hers and slowly, shakily thrust his hips forward; she could tell he was practicing self-restraint and was struggling horribly.

She rolled the palm of her hand over the end of it, which made his knees buckle. "You know, you never told me why you care. Why do you care, Tom?"

Tom's eyes found hers and his pupils were blown wide. He hooked his arms underneath her legs, and lifted her up. She yelped, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"Because, I don't want you to run from me anymore," he murmured into her breasts, kissing them.

Hermione's head thudded against the tree behind her and she moaned at the sensation of him circling his thumb around her nub, and pressing his hardness against her opening.

"Why don't you want me to run from you?" she panted, watching the rain trail between their bodies.

Tom grabbed her hips, and sank himself all the way in her. Hermione started to cry out, but he swallowed her cry with his lips. It hurt, but not as much as she was expecting it to. After a few moments, he pulled out and pushed himself back in slowly.

Hermione grabbed his hair and rolled her hips against his every time he moved. Each time she met him, she felt it building and climbing and it turned into  _oh_ ,  _right there_  and  _oh, gods_  and  _go faster_ and  _please, Tom_  and  _don't stop_.

It turned into Hermione crying out to gods who didn't exist and Tom convincing her that they did.

His long, pale fingers trailed up her arm as he kept her pressed against the smooth tree. "I do not want you to fear me."

"I do not fear you, Tom," she replied quietly.

His fingers kept moving up, his palm splaying over her heart. "This is the only thing I want from you. I want this to be mine, and mine only."

"My heart?" she asked in disbelief.

Tom nodded against her shoulder, kissing her jawline. "Will you give it to me, Hermione? Your heart?"

"You cannot ask that of me, Tom," she whispered, knowing he could feel her heart beating wildly beneath his fingertips.

He lifted his lips to hers, pushing himself into her once more and said, "You will always have mine."

* * *

It was after noon the next day when they found a wagon trail covered with fresh horse droppings. That meant there was some sort of settlement nearby, he said.

And he was right – there was a settlement nearby, and a rather large one, at that. He wasn't familiar with this town, so Tom told her to wait by the vendors until he figured out a way to gain passage on one of the ships out in the port. They had no money to barter with, so Hermione assumed he was going to use unconvential ways to get what he wanted.

Normally, she would have argued with him about it, but instead, she handed him her sword.

Tom's eyes settled on her, waiting for an explanation.

"I have a feeling you're going to need it more than I am," she said.

His fingers lingered on hers when she handed it over, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips.

"I'll come back for you," he told her.

And for the first time, she trusted that he would.

After he left, she spent her time leisurely looking through the wares the various vendors were selling in the marketplace. Many of the people ignored her presence, which she was fine with. A few looked at her strangely, but she was sure she looked a mess after being stuck in the same clothing for weeks.

Hermione went to reach out and touch a pink flower that was for sale, when a burlap bag was thrown over her head and a pair of strong arms wrapped around her chest from behind.

She kicked and she screamed, but no one in the town would help her.

The only person she called out for was Tom, but she knew he would probably never hear her.

* * *

"I don't want no trouble, boy," the gruff, no-nonsense spice trader sitting across from him said.

"We won't be any trouble at all, sir. My wife and I will work for you until we reach Tortuga, if you will allow us safe passage on your ship," Tom reassured him with his lies.

The man stroked his long beard, looking at Tom skeptically. " And how do I know you're not some bootlegger lookin' to spy on your competition?"

Tom tried to not frown, growing tired of the man sitting across from him. He didn't usually have this hard of a time trying to convince anyone of anything, but he guessed his current appearance didn't work in his favor – he did look a bit of a mess.

"I wasn't even aware of what your trade was until you told me just now, sir. I have little to no interest in the business of trading spices. I just want to get my wife and I home safely," Tom told him. 

He watched the man start to lean toward his favor of letting them come along, when his eyes suddenly narrowed at something over his shoulder.

"What did you say yer wife looked like again? Long, dark hair, yeah?" the man asked treacherously, continuing to speak. "A young, heart-shaped face. Pretty, right?"

Tom tensed, hoping that Hermione hadn't decided to come find him. He wasn't sure how this man felt about darker-skinned people yet. He slowly turned around, thinking he'd see Hermione standing behind him, but she wasn't there.

That's when he noticed a yellowed wanted poster with a recent drawing of Hermione next to a sketch of a man who looked eerily like him.

 _Fuck_.

Tom turned back around to see the end of a pistol staring him in the face.

"I'd like to meet yer  _wife_ ," he said conversationally. "I've got a feelin' that she's worth her weight in gold, if ye catch my drift."

Before Tom had a chance to come up with an idea to get out of this mess, a glass bottle shattered over the man's head, sending him crashing to the floor.

"Ugh, he just wouldn't shut up, would he? Drivel, drivel, pure  _drivel_."

Tom stared in shock as Bellatrix Lestrange tossed the broken end of the rum bottle on top of the man like it was something that disgusted her.

"Captain, my Captain," she grinned playfully, giving him a curtsy. "Did you miss me?"

Tom couldn't say that he'd missed her, but he sure as Hell was relieved that she was here, because that meant his crew and his ship was nearby.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, how I am  _so_  pleased to see you here, Bella."

" _Tom!_ "

Tom frowned, certain that he'd heard Hermione calling his name outside. He motioned for Bella to follow him out the door, and she tip-toed around the groaning man. No one seemed to even care, which didn't surprise him. The man didn't seem to be popular amongst the other patrons.

They stepped outside into the busy street and his eyes scanned the crowd for Hermione, but he didn't spot her.

"Ugh, did you bring that  _girl_  with you? Is she your new toy?" Bella complained.

"That  _girl_  is the reason why I was gone for nearly two weeks. Help me find her," he ordered.

"Someone's got her! There!" Bella shouted, pointing down the hill, toward the piers.

Sure enough, a large man was dragging a screaming Hermione along with him. That's also when he noticed Malfoy's ship weighed in the port nearby.

Tom swore, and they chased after her.

* * *

The man unceremoniously sat her in a wooden chair and the sack was removed from her head. Hermione blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the lighting of the room.

"It's her," a familiar voice spoke, filling her with immediate dread. "You've found her!"

Her eyes adjusted right in time to see Draco handing what she assumed was a reward to the burly man. The man left and Draco turned his attention back on her. He dropped to his knees in front of her, checking her body over for injuries.

"Hermione, love, are you alright? I can't believe we've found you! I'd feared the worst," he fussed.

Hermione glared at him, her chest filling with a burning rage. How had she ended up back in their clutches again? Escaping a second time would not come easy.

"I'm  _fine_ ," she snapped, tearing her arm out of his grasp. "And don't call me 'love'. I am  _not_  your love."

Draco's jaw clenched, but he ignored her statement.

"How did you manage to escape? You were on the ship of Captain Voldemort, the most feared pirate in the Caribbean. That should not have been an easy feat," Draco asked.

She didn't want to tell him the entire truth, so she lied.

"They weighed anchor nearby and I escaped when they were all in town or drunk," she replied dispassionately.

"And you just…remained in town?" he asked with a raised brow in disbelief.

She ignored his question, feeling her frustration slowly build. "I want to go  _home_."

Draco's expression softened and he caressed her face with his hands. "We've set course for home already. We'll be there in five days' time and –"

Hermione slapped his hand away and abruptly stood, knocking the chair to the floor. "I don't want to go to  _your_  home! I want to go to  _mine_!"

Draco slowly stood and towered over her, suddenly looking threatening. "I don't understand you. You're stuck in a position where you are vulnerable and I am offering you protection – comfort, yet you constantly deny me."

Hermione took a step back and replied, "I would not have to constantly deny you if you'd just take a bloody hint."

He took a step toward her and said, "If anyone should be taking a hint here, it is you. When will you realize that you…are… _mine_?"

"I was never yours," she replied venomously, her fingers curling around a hard object behind her and she braced herself to hit him with it, but then the door swung open.

"Draco," a disheveled Lucius Malfoy panted, slamming the door shut behind him. "He's found us."

Draco sighed, obviously annoyed at the interruption. " _Who's_  found us, Father?"

The sound of a cannon echoed loudly through the air. The sound of one of the masts crashing into the water came shortly after.

Lucius looked Hermione dead in the eye for a second and her heart raced. Had he come for her…? He said that he would, but how? No, it couldn't be him. It wasn't possible, because the Death Eater was long gone without it's captain. She held her breath, waiting for his response.

"Captain Voldemort."

* * *

Tom didn't believe in luck, but he didn't know what else to call it; the town they'd wandered into happened to be one of the stops that was on his trading route. Bellatrix was his second-in-command, so she strictly stuck to the schedule in his absence. He would have to give her a bonus when all of this was over.

It had taken nearly an hour, but the Death Eater quickly caught up with the Malfoy's ship. Once they were within range, he gave the command to hoist the colors and fire the cannons.

Within minutes, his crew boarded the other ship with a flurry of flashing steel and blasting pistols; Malfoy's crew stood no chance against his.

Tom swung his sword skillfully as he made his way toward Malfoy's quarters. He had a feeling that is where Hermione was being kept.

A man dressed in a fine uniform fit for being in the Queen's presence jumped in front of Tom with his sword drawn. The man let out a battle cry, but he was abruptly muted when Tom sliced his sword through his neck.

Tom continued on, letting the body drop and the head roll.

* * *

"Draco, are you mad!? You'll surely be killed!" Lucius yelled.

"I will not have her be taken from me again, Father!" Draco yelled back, tying his expensive sword and sheath to his belt.

"She is not worth your life – she is not worth any of this! This has gotten out of control!"

Hermione sat there quietly, but her mind was on full alert, trying to find a way out of another situation. She just wanted to be  _free_.

As she ran through ideas, she listened to Draco tell his father to keep her in here, keep her safe, and bar the door. Lucius listened, but he glared at her with the most contempt she'd ever seen on one face before after Draco left.

* * *

"You!" someone shouted.

Tom's eyes quickly found the youngest Malfoy storming toward him through the crowd – he had the audacity to look like he had a score to settle. The corner of Tom's mouth lifted when Draco drew out his extravagant blade.

"You're the one who took my fiancée from me! How  _dare_  you show your face on my ship!" the blonde man shouted.

"Want me to take care of this one for ya, Captain?" Antonin asked from nearby with a big grin on his face.

"Captain?" Draco yelped weakly. " _You're_  Captain Voldemort?"

Tom smiled, shook his head at Antonin, and brandished his blade again. "That won't be necessary, Dolohov. This is personal."

Antonin saluted, and said a quick ' _khorosho_ ' before he left.

"Personal? How is this personal to you? If anything, it is supposed to be personal to me. You  _stole_  my fiancée –"

"You do realize that she hates you, right?" Tom interrupted, tilting his head slightly while slowly sliding the metal of his blade against Draco's as they circled each other.

"We…have a history that is hard for her to overlook – that does not mean that she hates me. She's a stubborn woman," Draco said.

"Oh, I know how stubborn she is on a  _very_  personal level."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked, frowning.

Tom smiled. "Let's just say that we have…a  _history_."

Once Draco realized exactly what Tom meant, he lunged forward violently, clashing his sword against Tom's. Each time Draco swung, Tom was right there to parry it. He was willing to admit that Draco was skilled, but it wasn't enough. Their swords clashed together so strongly that it sent them both sliding away from each other.

Draco pointed his sword at Tom and said, "Hermione is  _mine_. I don't care  _who_  you are; you will never have her!"

"Never have her? But I already have," Tom grinned cruelly, immensely enjoying provoking the him. " _Twice._ "

Draco let out a rage-filled scream, lunged forward, and yelled, "Prepare to meet your death, pirate!"

Determined to get to Hermione, annoyed for being held up yet  _again_ , and furious with the man in front of him for thinking he had some claim to Hermione, Tom decided to end it. He quickly spun around, crouched low, and impaled Draco in the abdomen with his sword. Just as quickly as Tom had impaled him, he pulled the sword out and stepped back, watching the scene play out.

Draco staggered away, pressing an open palm to the wound. He pulled it away and stared wide-eyed at his blood-soaked hand, dropping his blade in shock. He went to speak, but he choked on the blood that was quickly filling his lungs.

Tom approached him, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Draco went stiff under his hand, probably knowing he was going to die.

Tom leaned in close to Draco's ear and whispered, "I am death. Were you prepared to meet me?"

Draco's eyes widened one last time as Tom's cold dagger found his warm heart.

* * *

"If my son dies because of you, I'll –"

"You'll  _what_ , Lucius?" Hermione interrupted. "What more could you try to do to me that could possibly make my life worse than it already is?"

Lucius laughed. "You think your life is so terrible, don't you? You have been offered an opportunity that is so far below your ranking that it is nearly inconceivable to comprehend how it happened to begin with, let alone the fact that you  _refuse_  it."

"No one wants to be a prisoner, no matter how pretty the cage is," she replied fervently. "I want to be free."

He laughed cruelly again. "You will never be free, you stupid girl. Being born with your mother's skin has only ensured that. You being free just means that you are ripe for the taking, and trust me when I say that you will be snatched up quickly."

Hermione scowled at him. "That is not true. I've seen plenty of men and women with my skin and they are not slaves. You are just saying these things to frighten me, because you want my plantation and inheritance!"

If Hermione thought Lucius looked frenzied before, he looked hysteric now. "Is that what you truly think?"

"It is what I  _know_ ," she replied firmly, being careful with her gaze – she needed to find a weapon and quickly.

"You brat," he spat, moving around the desk toward her. He reached out and grabbed her upper arm before she had a chance to grab something to use against him. "You're just like your mother – an ungrateful wench, thinking you deserve far more than you do."

"Do not speak of my mother or I that way!" she cried.

"I will speak to you any way I wish. Who is going to stop me?" he snarled, his trimmed fingernails cutting into her flesh. He was so busy shaking her, he didn't realize she'd found his rapier attached to his belt.

Hermione brought the tip of the thin blade up to his throat and replied dangerously, " _I_  will."

Lucius dropped his hands from her like he'd been burned. His eyes narrowed. "You should give that back to me before you hurt yourself."

She gave him a quick slice across his cheek, and pointed the rapier at his neck again. A thin trickle of blood seeped down his cheek and she replied, "I think you meant that I should give it back before I hurt  _you_."

Lucius' jaw clenched. He remained silent.

"You fabricated the documents, didn't you?" Hermione asked, vaguely wondering if someone was calling her name on the other side of the door.

Lucius's teeth bared when he answered. "I might've."

" _Why?_ " she asked. There was banging on the door now, she was certain.

"You stupid girl. You really don't get it, do you? Everything your father had – everything he built his empire upon, he originally stole from others. I was just doing the same as he had done," the blonde man sneered.

Hermione felt the anger winning control over her rationality. She grabbed the front of his shirt and the weapon that was pressed against his neck eased. At some point, in the middle of their exchanging of words, Tom had managed to bust the door down – she just  _knew_  it was him. She watched as Lucius's eyes briefly darted over her shoulder where she knew Tom was stalking from the sidelines. "My father was a good man! Don't you dare tarnish his memory with your lies."

A patronizing smile curled his features as he brought his attention back to her. "Being a good man is all subjective, isn't it? One might say that I am a good man for everything that I have accomplished."

"You have accomplished not one good deed in your entire life, Malfoy. Do not delude yourself into thinking you are a good man. You are scum who preys on the weak and the trusting. My father trusted you, and this is how you repay him?"

"Ask him how your father died, Hermione," Tom urged quietly from behind her.

She frowned, listening to his words, not taking her eyes off Lucius. She saw something flash in the older man's eyes – dread.

"He died of pneumonia," she replied uncertainly.

The silence was so suffocating, she could hardly breathe. Tom's presence suffocated her, too, but it was the warm kind – the kind of warmth that was the sun beating down on her back while stuck out at sea with him, the kind of warmth that was the humid air sticking to her skin whenever he touched her, the kind of warmth that was the life he breathed into her lungs.

Hermione found new strength in that life.

Her eyes hardened and she nicked the cold steel against his pale skin again. A hiss sounded from the older man and she calmly asked, "How did my father die, Lucius?"

There was a long pause before he finally exploded, "I was promised the plantation after your father died! It was supposed to be  _mine_!"

"My father's plantation passes onto me; why would you think that it goes to you?"

"Because you are an abomination! Your stupid father went and fell in love with some whore and had  _you_. He  _loved_  you," he spat viciously, as if a word so beautiful was poison. "You were never supposed to get the plantation, but Henry found some loophole where it would legally all go to  _you_. So, of course, I had to find some way around it, didn't I? That's when I brought up an arranged marriage between our families, but Henry shot it down immediately. He said  _my son_  wasn't good enough for  _you_  – _YOU_!"

Hermione could hardly believe her ears. She was shocked by this admission – by his pure hatred. "You killed my father on his death bed and forged his documents," she breathed, finally realizing the harsh reality of it all.

Lucius scoffed.

"All the rum I have been gifting your father over the last few years? It was laced with a weak poison. I wanted his death to be slow and agonizing, for the injustice he served me. I wanted none of it traced to me. And now?" he paused and Hermione saw his arm shift; she got ready.

"It's your turn!" he shouted, lunging a dagger toward Hermione's chest. She parried it by slamming the butt of her sword down on his weapon-arm, making him drop his dagger. Then she used the palm of her free hand to jut it as hard as she could underneath his chin, sending him stumbling backward.

Lucius had recovered, but by then, it was too late. Hermione plunged her sword through his chest with a cry that was a mixture of wrath and despair.

Blood bubbled out of his mouth and he stared down at the metal sticking out of his chest in shock.

"Here is my gift to you, Lucius," she said, her voice wavering as her throat closed from her oncoming tears. "Blessed be the dead; but not for you, Lucius. Never for you."

Hermione pulled the sword away and let him crash to the floor.

She looked up at Tom just in time for his lips to crash to hers; the sword clattered to the floor, forgotten. She tasted salt on his chapped lips, and felt his hands in her hair.

Hermione pulled away from him and asked in disbelief, "You came back for me?"

Tom's fingers curled into the hair at the nape of her neck and he gently tugged her head back to face him directly. His warm breath fanned across her face and her body shivered.

"I said I would come back for you. And nobody steals what is mine."

"I was never yours to be stolen, Tom," she breathed against his lips.

"I know," he murmured.

Hermione didn't understand why her heart raced in excitement at his words. Two simple words, filled with a deeper meaning – a promise. A warmth spread through her chest and she frowned.

"What is this feeling?" she asked him.

He answered her with the feel of his lips and the taste of her tears and the only thing they heard over the combat going on around them was the sound of the sea.


End file.
